The Complete Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Book Details
Author(s)Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
PublisherRareBooksClub.com
ISBN / ASIN1236691164
ISBN-139781236691163
AvailabilityUsually ships in 2 to 3 weeks
Sales Rank6,737,382
MarketplaceUnited States 🇺🇸
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Excerpt: ...and the gods Paid homage to her beauty. Thus her hair Was cinctured; thus her floating drapery Was like a cloud about her, and her face Was radiant with the sunshine and the sea. THE VOICE OF ZEUS. Is thy work done, Hephaestus? HEPHAESTUS. It is finished! THE VOICE. Not finished till I breathe the breath of life Into her nostrils, and she moves and speaks. HEPHAESTUS. Will she become immortal like ourselves? THE VOICE. The form that thou hast fashioned out of clay Is of the earth and mortal; but the spirit, The life, the exhalation of my breath, Is of diviner essence and immortal. The gods shall shower on her their benefactions, She shall possess all gifts: the gift of song, The gift of eloquence, the gift of beauty, The fascination and the nameless charm That shall lead all men captive. HEPHAESTUS. Wherefore? wherefore? (A wind shakes the house.) I hear the rushing of a mighty wind Through all the halls and chambers of my house! Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom Heaves with the inspiration. As a reed Beside a river in the rippling current Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts her head. She gazes round about as if amazed; She is alive; she breathes, but yet she speaks not! (PANDORA descends from the pedestal.) CHORUS OF THE GRACES AGLAIA. In the workshop of Hephaestus     What is this I see? Have the Gods to four increased us     Who were only three? Beautiful in form and feature,     Lovely as the day, Can there be so fair a creature     Formed of common clay? THALIA. O sweet, pale face! O lovely eyes of azure,   Clear as the waters of a brook that run   Limpid and laughing in the summer sun!   O golden hair that like a miser's treasure In its abundance overflows the measure!   O graceful form, that cloudlike floatest on   With the soft, undulating gait of one   Who moveth as if motion were a pleasure! By what name shall I call thee? Nymph or Muse,   Callirrhoe or Urania? Some sweet name   Whose every syllable is...